


On Reciprocity

by scarlett_the_seachild



Series: on causation [2]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Dom/sub Undertones, Face Slapping, Hair-pulling, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masochism, Prostitution, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, dont pay ur friends to be nice to u kids, it's fairly obvious this can't end well, light kink, really bad judgement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 13:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13812486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: Sometimes Laurens buys him things.It's not horrible or anything, but it's a little weird.





	On Reciprocity

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my other oneshot On Causation. it's not super necessary to read, but it'll probably make more sense if you do.  
> this story consists of absolutely terrible judgement, unhealthy methods of dealing with Issues™ and total lack of negotiation.  
> Also i decided to write Alex's POV in first person but if you don't think it works let me know for the next one

It starts small, small enough to pretend it’s not happening. After the first time, when Alexander awoke to find a small sack of coins at his bedside, it took him a moment to make the connection to the conversation they’d had the previous night, as well as the activities that had followed it. Laurens doesn’t mention it, out of embarrassment probably, and that’s just fine with Alex. He’s no stranger to keeping other men’s secrets. He takes the money, buys himself a new pair of boots.

The assignment that has them holed up in the winter cabin stretches into weeks. More aides come; Fitz and Harrison with news from Valley Forge, Burgoyne’s movements South of the Hudson. They bring ink, oil, candles. All good and useful stuff though Hamilton gets through half of it in two days, writing letters until his hands ache with abuse and chilblains and he can’t hold a quill properly. He grumbles while Lafayette rubs feeling into them, trying not to whimper at the pain and conscious of Laurens, flickering glances at him from where he sits, bent over his correspondence in the corner of the room.

A few days later, Alexander finds a small package on the top of his letter stack. Bemused he unwraps it warily, his fingers swollen and a little clumsy on the string. Inside are a pair of sleek, handsome leather gloves, folded one on top of the other as if waiting politely for him. He stares at them. 

“What’s this?” he says at last.

Catching the lilt to his voice, bordering on affront, Meade gets up and ambles over to have a look. He picks up the label bearing Hamilton’s name, frowning at the lack of return address. “Seems like you’ve got yourself a benefactor,” he says sportingly, clapping Alexander on the shoulder. “I’d be surprised if it wasn’t a thoughtful gift from her Ladyship. She’s certainly taken a shine to _you.”_

Alexander returns the smile weakly but his gaze shifts to Laurens, hunched over a letter to his father and very deliberately not meeting his eye.

He catches him outside, on the way to the storeroom. Grabs his arm roughly, jerks him round so that they’re facing each other. “What the hell is this?” he demands.

Laurens’ eyes flit from left to right, as if searching for an escape route. His tongue darts out nervously over his bottom lip, still when he speaks his voice is quite composed. “They’re very popular in Europe apparently,” he answers dryly. “Have been since at least the tenth century. From what I hear, you wear them over your hands. Sort of like a muff, only finger-shaped.”

Despite lacking their usual power, Alexander’s fingers dig more deeply into Laurens’ arm. “Why did you send them?”

“Because…” Laurens flounders, rolls his eyes to distract from it. “Something told me that you might need them? You’ve been complaining about the cold for days, Alexander.”

Alexander bristles at the frankness of the truth. “I can handle it,” he snaps.

Laurens nods. “Okay.”

His eyes travel down towards his sleeve, the blue material bunched where Alex holds it in his grip. A flush comes into Alexander’s cheeks and he drops Laurens’ arm.

“I don’t want them,” Alexander says.

Laurens shrugs, decidedly unbothered. “Don’t wear them, then.”

“I mean, I won’t take anything I haven’t earned.” He impresses his words, needs Laurens to hear them. Despite how it feels sometimes, they haven’t known each other for all that long. There’s still a lot about him that he wants to remain a mystery. Hamilton won’t put words to his narrative, doesn’t feel the need to explain himself, not even to Laurens. Even so, he needs him to understand that apart from his name, all he has is what he can scrape together with his own two hands.

A look comes into Laurens’ eyes at that. Alexander is not sure that its comprehension, but whatever it is has Laurens’ face softening, the studied indifference giving way to something rawer, altogether more difficult to name. When he speaks, it’s with the same casual lightness as before. “Earn it then,” he suggests, as though pointing out directions on a map. “If it makes you feel better.”

Alexander stares at him, the meaning sinking in. Laurens shakes out his sleeve with an airy sort of dignity, continues on his way to the storehouse. Alexander doesn’t follow him but just stands there, blinking rather stupidly. After several minutes, he reaches into his coat pocket and slides the gloves onto his fingertips.

They feel _heavenly._

*

The weather improves for the better. February brings the change; while the days are darker than ever there’s a crisp nip to the air that has replaced the snow and hale-storms, sinking the Valley into a cold but relatively unpunishing winter. Alexander, whose skin has always been sensitive to change in the weather, had dreaded the clean, cold air more than he had the blizzards. But his gloves keep him warm, fingers buried snug into the soft, moleskin lining like a secret pleasure.

He can’t help the smile that creeps unbidden when he slips them on, the stirring in his stomach as he gives in to self-indulgence. It’s not often he gets the chance to be so close to luxury. He knows it’s making him weak; he becomes so used to the touch of expensive leather that he starts to wonder how he ever did without them.

But they’re not his, not yet. Despite his fast attachment to his new attire they are still John’s, so long as he hasn’t paid for them. The days slide from one into the other and Alexander still can’t rid himself of Laurens’ cool, indifferent prompt: _Earn it, then. If it makes you feel better._

It’s not a question of feeling. It’s a question of imbursement. Alexander won’t take a penny he hasn’t worked for. He didn’t get this far on a rich boy’s pity.

He spends an afternoon thinking how to earn it.

The opportunity arises that very evening. Laurens has been fussing all day, leaning this way and that at his desk, placing his hands on his shoulder-blades and kneading the muscles, stretching so far backwards in his chair Alexander half-feared it would topple over. It’s very distracting, not least because the tranquillity of work-induced silence is frequently broken by Laurens issuing frustrated little sighs and groans, which although unintentional, only serve as a grating reminder of his discomfort.

Lafayette breaks before Hamilton does. “Is there a _problem,_ my dear?” he asks, eyes flashing as Laurens releases yet another impatient huff.

“It’s my shoulder,” Laurens complains, gripping it tightly with his hand and squeezing as if in punishment. “It hasn’t been right since Brandywine. It’s been playing up all day.”

“It’s just because you’ve been sitting in the same spot for so long,” Alexander tells him, not looking up from his letter to Greene. “You ought to do some push-ups. Stretch it out.”

Laurens doesn’t answer, but increases the pressure on his shoulder. A tiny sound escapes him from across the room, slightly higher in pitch than before. It’s barely noticeable. Still, Alexander notices.

His head whips up, heart thudding against his ear-drums. Laurens’ eyes are closed, Alexander can just make out the slight crease between his eyebrows that appears whenever he’s faced with a particularly complex problem. He sits tense and upright in his hardbacked chair, his body drawn straight and tight as a bowstring.

Alexander puts down his quill.

“Or,” he says, keeping his voice casual. “I could give you a massage.”

Laurens’ body, if possible, goes even more tense. His eyes fly open, throwing Hamilton an anxious glance.

Lafayette waves irritably. “Please do,” he tells Alex. “Anything to quit this incessant huffing, and groaning.”

Laurens looks uncertain, eyes blown wide as if with fear. “Are you sure?”

Alexander shrugs. “Why not.” Pauses before adding, “I owe you one, anyway.”

Laurens starts a little at that, eyes flickering anxiously in Lafayette’s direction, but he’s so engrossed in his work Alexander doubts whether he heard it, let alone guessed its significance. Eventually Laurens sets his jaw, so tight that Alexander can see a muscle jumping in it, like the fickle flit of a moth’s wing. He nods.

Alexander gets up, makes his way steadily across the room until he’s standing behind Laurens’ chair. As he draws closer, he senses Laurens’ pulse pick up, hears his breathing catch and quicken. The realisation sends a thrill running straight through him, emboldening him into lifting his hands and settling them on the high, flat plane of Laurens’ upper back. Without ceremony he digs the heels of his palm into Laurens’ shoulder-blades, foregoing gentleness for a pressure that just stops short of being harsh.

Laurens lets out a deep sigh, eyes rolling closed as his head tilts back. It’s an invitation for Alexander to draw nearer so he does, putting his mouth almost to Laurens’ ear. “Tell me if it’s too hard,” he whispers. “If it hurts.”

Laurens doesn’t.

*

It becomes a thing. Alexander isn’t sure how, swears he never meant it to. But every now and then Laurens will stumble out of bed in a state of artful dishevelment and Alexander will offer to tie his hair, or else at the end of a long day cooped up in the cabin writing letters, Laurens will rise from his chair and throw a hopeful glance in Alexander’s direction, who will immediately ask if he wants his shoulder rubbed. It works like that, with Laurens never directly initiating. At least, not out loud. Through a combination of optimistic looks and throwaway comments he makes it clear what he wants, and Alexander is quick to oblige.

The next morning, or a few days later, Alexander will wake up to a tin of hair pomade. Or a new quill set, or a pair of silver cufflinks. Or, if the post is slow, simply a small pouch of coins.

“This is weird,” Lafayette tells Alexander frankly as he tears through the latest package Laurens has sent him.

It’s a beautiful new hat. Deep navy, and embroidered with gold and crimson thread. Hamilton runs his hand along the stiff ridges admiringly. He had only sent Laurens’ tailor the measurements a week ago, he’s surprised he managed to get it made so quickly.

“It’s not that weird,” Alex tells him.

Lafayette raises an eyebrow, purses his lips together. Says nothing.

Alexander hadn’t needed to tell him. As the gifts kept coming, and communications between Alex and Laurens became ever more loaded, so weighty with meaning it could make a room taut with it, it didn’t take Lafayette long to work out why there was never any return address. When he had asked, Alexander had replied evasively: “I do him favours, sometimes” and the matter was dropped.

Because the thing is, John and Alex are friends. Alexander knows there are entities that plague Laurens – dark things and night things that have stalked his shadow since the very first day they’d met. Laurens won’t talk about it, which fine, fair enough. There’s a lot Alexander doesn’t like to talk about either, he’s hardly in a position to accuse anyone of reticence. And if this is the way Laurens wants to deal with whatever it is that has him searching for fights in crowded bars, throwing money away on vagrants and boxers then at least Alexander is there to provide some source of comfort, while also being able to cover a few expenses on the side.

Alright, so it’s a little weird.

There’s also the fact that sometimes, Alexander isn’t expecting to be paid. When he combs Laurens’ hair, or applies vinegar to his split knuckles because he’s just trying to be a friend. Once in a while, Laurens will drop his head wearily into Alexander’s lap and, thinking nothing of it, Alexander will run his hand idly over Laurens’ back or chest, enjoying the warm weight of another body against him, the silken smoothness of skin under his palms. And in the morning he’ll wake up to another pouch of coins by his bedside and he’ll feel confused, and a little hurt.

Right now though, Laurens has got Alexander pinned to the ground beneath him, hands gripping his wrists and one knee pressed against his thigh, attempting to instil a different kind of pain.

They’ve been wrestling. Laurens hasn’t been eating much recently, and his body is thin for someone who has spent so much time indoors. Even so he still manages to knock Alexander flat onto his back, gets him trapped beneath his torso and the frost-hard earth. He leers over him now, expression smug and taunting as Alexander snarls, kicking out fruitlessly against him.

“And I thought it was harder to catch decent game during winter,” he quips, subtly attributing to Alex his least favourite comparison.

“I’m not a fucking rabbit,” Alexander snaps, bristling more from the comment than their current position.

Laurens makes a low, humming noise in agreement. “Of course,” he replies, mouth twisting wickedly. “More like a vole. Or a shrew.”

Alexander swears again, bringing his knees up suddenly beneath Laurens’ stomach and pushing forcefully. Laurens falls off with a soft _ooft_ – Hamilton rolls off the ground before he can recover, pressing all his weight onto the long length of Laurens’ body and pinning his arms by his sides. “I thought Lafayette banned you from hunting,” he says, eyes flickering to his recovering shoulder.

Laurens snorts. “He can’t tell me what to do.”

“No,” Alexander admits, conscious of Laurens’ muscles relaxing beneath him, his eyes growing dark and heavily-lidded as they gaze up at him. “No, only I can do that. Isn’t that right?”

Laurens makes another contemptuous sound, but it lacks feeling. Alexander digs his knees into Laurens’ thighs, wraps his hand in a fistful of his hair and pulls the way he knows he likes. “I said, isn’t that right, John?”

In response, Laurens releases a high, breathy groan. Alexander tightens his grip, pulls until Laurens’ mouth goes slack and his cheek falls back against the dirt. It’s only the second time that he’s done this – really done this, not just worked a little too ungently while plaiting his hair – since that first night. A quiet curiosity, which he’s sure must be more intellectual than anything else, has been hankering to try it again. He wants to know what Laurens likes about this so much. Why he, Alexander, so likes doing it.

“You’re an odd one, John Laurens,” Alexander tells him calmly as Laurens canters his hips upwards. He flattens his palm, pushing Laurens’ face more firmly into the earth so that Laurens splutters, accidentally breathing in a mouthful of mud.

“Bastard,” he wheezes, spitting out dirt.

Alexander opens his palm, striking it across Laurens’ face. Laurens gasps, his mouth falling wide open against the ground. Alexander glares down at him furiously, eyes blazing and hand curled as if ready to strike again.

“One pair of cufflinks isn’t enough for me to hear that,” he tells him, quite calmly.

Laurens moves his lips to speak. Swallows. Tries again. “I’m sorry,” he manages finally. “You know I didn’t mean it.”

And he sounds it, he really does. His voice is hoarse and broken, partly from the slap and partly, Alexander thinks, out of remorse for hurting him. The problem is, he doesn’t _look_ sorry. His eyes, previously dark and clouded as if with too much laudanum are suddenly bright, alert. He’s breathing heavily; Hamilton can see the pulse leaping against the thin, gold-brown skin of his neck. _He’s_ the one who looks like a caught deer, staring up at Alex with pupils blown wide enough that it should be fear Alexander reads there…but it isn’t. It really isn’t the look of an animal who wants to run away.

It’s the look of someone who wants to be hit again.

They notice it at the same time. Alexander feels it, hard and sly against his hip and at first he’s confused. By the time he’s worked out what it is Laurens has thrown him off, has pushed himself into a sitting position and is hissing between the gaps of his fingers as he runs his hand over his face: _“Shit.”_

Alexander stares at him. “Laurens?” he tries tentatively.

Laurens doesn’t reply. Without looking at Alexander he gets shakily to his feet, staggering into the dark cover of the woods without a backwards glance.

*

“This is getting ridiculous.”

Lafayette stands with his arms crossed over his chest, mouth curled in a sneer and chin tilted disdainfully as he surveys the horse.

Alexander ignores him, running a hand over the beautiful chestnut neck. “Don’t be jealous.”

Lafayette scoffs, rolling his eyes as Alexander reaches into his pocket for an apple. “I am not jealous,” he replies haughtily. “Because I am wondering what you had to do for it.”

Alexander doesn’t reply. The horse turns his muzzle into his palm. With his other hand, Alexander reaches up to scratch in between the ears. Laurens had left that morning to serve as aid to General Greene. He hadn’t said goodbye, but he had left a set of instructions with the stable boys. In the fading afternoon sun, the horse is almost the exact same colour as Alexander’s hair.

“For God’s sake, do not call it Bucephalus,” Lafayette tells him warningly.

Alexander smiles. Feeds his horse an apple.

**Author's Note:**

> Laurens really did send Hamilton a hat, a fact which served as the inspiration for this series.
> 
> Please let me know what you thought! future instalments are upcoming!


End file.
